


and the strength of the wolf is the pack

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Animal Transformation, Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: Everyone’s heard about the Sarries wolf nights, though. The drama, the intrigue – Elliot’s always been curious, but Jamie refused to tell him anything. It’s all the secrecy surrounding it, and the rumours of deer attacks and other non-human activity. The Saracens players themselves had been quick to quash those rumours, but there’s still a frisson of excitement attached to the notion of the wolfpack.It beats the Wasps swarm any day of the week, in Elliot’s opinion.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	and the strength of the wolf is the pack

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my five-year anniversary of publishing rugby fic on ao3 - otherwise known as writing out my feelings two days after England were knocked out of the 2015 World Cup. Good times, eh?  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this bit of silliness, and I’d love to hear what you thought in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com/).

The Saracens’ wolfpack mentality was one of the things Elliot was most excited about when he joined the team. Nothing against Jamie – his best friend was obviously part of the decision – but there’s something about having such strong team bonds and close friendships that attracted him more to Saracens.

The literal Sarries wolfpack played a part too, of course. Wasps was a decent enough club on the pitch, but the twice-yearly swarm wasn’t much to write home about. The bravest of the coaches would lock them all in a room together and they’d shift, swarming around for a bit before Joe decided it was time to change back and get on with their day.

Everyone’s heard about the Sarries wolf nights, though. The drama, the intrigue – Elliot’s always been curious, but Jamie refused to tell him anything. It’s all the secrecy surrounding it, and the rumours of deer attacks and other non-human activity. The Saracens players themselves had been quick to quash those rumours, but there’s still a frisson of excitement attached to the notion of the wolfpack.

It beats the Wasps swarm any day of the week, in Elliot’s opinion.

It’s usually difficult to switch from one shifting creature to another, so Premiership policy is that new players cannot attempt the shift within their first year with a club. There’s the mental challenge of overriding the pathways that produce the shift into a wasp or a bear or a tiger and safely replacing them with new ones, like those required to make a wolf or a falcon.

The one thing Jamie has told him, though he’s got no idea if it’s true, is that before the wolfpack defence system was introduced at the club, the team shifted into camels to fit with the Saracen image. But the first time they tried it, the team spirit and connection wasn’t strong enough, and they ended up manifesting six camels which had to be clandestinely given to a zoo.

Apparently, the coaching team weren’t best pleased and forbade the players trying to shift again for another year. It’s expected that the Premiership teams are the only ones with bonds secure enough to attempt the change, although a few Championship clubs have managed it in recent years. Elliot’s sure Sarries won’t lose the ability during their spell in the lower league; they’re not that kind of team.

His first experience of the wolfpack was back in November, a cold and blustery night, just after the miserable World Cup and the first points deduction. Everyone was subdued on the journey to the forest, no-one cracking jokes or bothering to put some music on. It was quiet – not at all how he’d been expecting it to be.

Then the team had piled off the bus, following along behind Brad and Owen until they reached a clearing. Elliot and the few other newcomers were directed to a few tree stumps on the edge of the woods, then left to watch. The wolves weren’t dangerous, they’d been assured, but it would put them off to include non-wolves in the ritual.

The shifting players had fanned out in a circle, Owen and Brad in the centre. A gap appeared in the scudding clouds, letting a ray of moonlight fall onto the captains. They began to speak – reciting something, a meaningful passage or a creed maybe – but it was too low to hear from where he was sitting.

The words continued, with the other players in the outer ring joining one by one until their voices formed a rhythmic animal chanting. He was going to have to get the words off Jamie before his first shift, clearly.

Then, the voices ceased and in the blink of an eye, the space between two heartbeats, the players were falling, shifting down into wolf versions of themselves. Brad and Owen in the middle, he could pick apart, mainly because they were bigger than the others and growling.

The rest of the wolves were relatively similar, a few slightly thinner or taller. Their fur – pelt? hide? – was all brown flecked through with grey, from what he could tell in the half-light.

One of the other newbies stiffened next to him with a yelp, and he twisted to look. One of the wolves was trotting towards them, teeth bared and glinting. He didn’t dare to speak. He was sure he would be safe with his team, but there was something so solemn and dignified about the ritual that he didn’t want to pollute it with his human voice.

The wolf paused, a few metres away, tongue dangling out the side of its mouth like an overgrown dog. It panted at them, eyes flashing, and all of a sudden he was certain that this wolf was Jamie. “Hey, mate,” he whispered, held out his hand.

The wolf stared at him. He looked back. Maybe, though these wolves were safe, they weren’t fully human in their minds. As a wasp, Elliot had never been at full mental capacity, only caring about where the rest of the swarm was and avoiding fast-moving objects. Jamie – the wolf – must have been experiencing the same mental reduction. He let his hand drop, and the wolf retreated with a short bark.

That noise was the trigger for something, because the clearing erupted in a cacophony of barks and yaps, broken only by a joint howl from Brad and Owen. Elliot watched curiously as the wolves joined together in a loose group in the centre, haunches tensing.

From what Owen had said to him earlier – “Keep up if you can, mate, but don’t worry if you can’t; we’ll come back afterwards,” – he could guess that they were about to run. He got up, brushing the slimy autumn leaves off his jeans, and stepped out tentatively into the main clearing. Too caught up in what they were doing, the wolves ignored him.

One of the wolves at the head of the pack let out a piercing howl, quickly joined by a chorus of others, and then they were off. Elliot sprinted after them, squinting to see the wolves, so well disguised by the changing shadows. The back of the pack were just in view, scampering around and occasionally stopping to roll around in the dirt, but they were receding with every step Elliot’s clumsy human legs took.

Within a minute, the pack had vanished, leaving Elliot alone on the path, not entirely sure which way led back to the clearing. He trusted the wolves’ sense of smell and general team spirit, but he didn’t really want to be stuck in the forest for hours in winter.

He sat down on a fallen tree by the side of the path and hunched into his coat. The clouds in the sky looked suspiciously like snow clouds, and that would be just his luck. He couldn’t hear anything save the rustle of his coat and the wind in the trees, until-

Distantly, a howl ruptured the still night air, followed by another, and another, and another. He shivered. The wolves were still out there, then, however many miles away. He dug his phone out of his pocket to check how far he had made it before being left behind.

_2.74 miles in 10 minutes_ , his phone informed him helpfully.

He’d be pleased with that time in the gym most days of the week, even though he was dropping off the wolves towards the end. It had been another fifteen minutes at least since he stopped running, so the pack must be a half marathon away.

He resolved to sit and wait. The team would gain no advantage from letting him freeze to death, after all, unless they really hated him.

He might just have fallen asleep while waiting, propped up by a tree, and he jolted awake to the sensation of something pressing against his knee. There was a whine, and he looked down to see a wolf batting its nose against his leg. Managing not to shriek in surprise, he stood up with a word of thanks to whichever of his teammates had been sent to retrieve him.

They walked back to the carpark in silence, funnily enough, Elliot making sure to stay a few metres away from the wolf at all times. He wanted to experience the wolfpack for himself, and he wouldn’t do that if he provoked one of his shifted teammates into biting him on his first pack night.

Then it’s October 2020, the first time he’s deemed to be integrated enough to attempt the shift himself. The planned pack night in May for the end of the season hadn’t happened, rescheduled for the resumption of the season in August, so he’s technically only completed two of the required three observations.

But, given everything that’s going on in the world, he thinks he’s allowed a minor transgression of the rules – and the team clearly agree.

Owen had emailed round a PDF file entitled ‘Pack_Ritual_Procedure’ with stern instructions to familiarise oneself with the contents. Elliot flicks through it in an idle moment before training. From what he can tell, it’s just about expected standards of behaviour and how to control instincts enough not to attack any unsuspecting wildlife. Nothing that he needs to memorise - it's a pack night, not an exam.

The final game of the strange 2019-20 season comes to an end, and they’re all dismissed with firm instructions to be back at the clubhouse at eight the following night to travel to the forest. What with everything that’s going on, Elliot doesn’t have much time to get anxious about it, but the walk to the clearing clears his head enough for all his worries to come flooding in.

He hasn’t changed into anything other than a wasp, ever in his life, and the last time he shifted for a swarm was in May 2019. What if he’s forgotten how to do it and looks like a twit in front of the whole squad? There’s some academy boys up to watch for the first time, and if he messes up they’ll be telling stories about it forever more.

Jamie sidles up to him, bumping shoulders. “Calm down, mate,” he says lowly. “You’ll be fine. It’s instinctive; it literally can’t go wrong.” Elliot manages a smile. Of course that’s what Jamie thinks – he’s been turning into a wolf on the regular for over a decade. He wants to growl at his friend, but then that would just be proving the point about instincts.

The circle forms, and a shiver runs down Elliot’s spine. Brad and Owen are in the centre as always, this time fully illuminated by the moon. No clouds in the sky tonight to interfere with the ambience.

The captains start to speak, low and urgent so he has to strain to hear them.

_“Now this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky;  
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.  
  
As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back —  
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.”_

Their voices are merging into one. It’s so serious, and nobody else is smiling, but Elliot’s fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. It’s such a cliché – of course bloody Saracens recite the _Law of the_ bloody _Jungle_ on their pack nights. It’s so perfect for them.

_“Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep;  
And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep.  
  
“The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown,  
Remember the Wolf is a Hunter — go forth and get food of thine own.  
  
“Keep peace withe Lords of the Jungle — the Tiger, the Panther, and Bear.  
And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair.  
  
“When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail,  
Lie down till the leaders have spoken — it may be fair words shall prevail.  
  
“When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar,  
Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war.”_

The poem is rumbling in the air around the circle, such is the force and intensity of their words, and Elliot doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.

_“The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home,  
Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come._

_“The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain,  
The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again._

_“If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay,  
Lest ye frighten the deer from the crop, and your brothers go empty away._

_“Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can;  
But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man!”_

He can feel himself being subsumed into the ritual, slipping into the group mindset that’s the reason behind all this pomp and circumstance. He doesn’t know the words, but somehow they’re coming out of his mouth.

_“If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride;  
Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide.  
  
“The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies;  
And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies.  
  
“The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will;  
But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill.”_

It makes sense, all of a sudden. Saracens are a pack. They work together, fight together, look after each other together. They’re going to be fine in the Championship, because they’re a pack.

_“Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim  
Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same.  
  
“Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim  
One haunch of each kill for her litter, and none may deny her the same.  
  
“Cave-Right is the right of the Father — to hunt by himself for his own:  
He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone.”_

The chill breeze cutting through the clearing isn’t affecting him now. It’s either the adrenaline in his veins or the connections his mind is forming, keeping out the cold like an imaginary pelt.

Then Brad and Owen are raising their voices, and everyone else falls silent. Elliot can tell, without ever having participated before, that this is the climax of the ritual.

_“Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw,  
In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of your Head Wolf is Law.  
  
“Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they;  
But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is — Obey!”_

Wind whistles in the trees above. The guys around him are shifting from foot to foot, cracking their necks and clenching their fists like they’re about to run out onto the pitch, and then-

A wolf appears next to him, taking the place of his teammate, and then another. Within seconds, almost everyone around him has shifted, the power of the ritual and the team bond bringing their human bodies into the thrall of the wolf.

He makes panicked eye contact with the last remaining human in the ring, who reflects his fear for a split second before falling into the wolf’s body. His breath is quickening now, all the hazy calm of the chant abandoning him.

It’s like he’d imagined – the connection isn’t strong enough with him, he’s going to look like an idiot, and they’ll probably cast him out of the pack. He can’t shift. It’s been too long, and he can’t join the other wolves in their chase.

Elliot’s chest is rising and falling, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to force himself into the wolf. _Come on, come on, please-!_

Something’s nudging at his leg, and his eyes fly open. One of the wolves is pushed up against him, thwacking his legs with its tail, and it licks his hand. From the fuzzy depths of his brain, something tells him that this is Jamie, and he laughs, tension broken.

Then the air snaps, cracks around him, and –

When he opens his eyes again, he’s shifted. He barks joyfully, pure relief, and he’s answered by several voices across the clearing. Owen, Maro, Vincent – it’s clear as day now who’s yapping to who, each wolf’s voice coloured with different shades of accent and emotion and intent.

Jamie licks a stripe up the side of his face, and he bats his friend away with a paw. It’s new, having four legs and no wings during a shift, but some parts are the same. The sense of smell, for instance – he was always weirdly sensitive to different scents during the shift and for a few days afterwards, and the smells floating past his nose on the night air make him think this is going to be no different.

During the swarm, though, there was no such family connection or bond pulling them together. It was more workmanlike; they had a job to do, and no time to play around. Now, as a wolf, he’s ready to do whatever the pack leaders say.

Brad points his nose to the north, everyone gaggling in behind him to join the chase. Then everyone’s running around him and Elliot is too, bounding freely, tongue lolling out of his mouth. There are some humans thundering along behind, he can tell, but they’re already tiring and will be left behind soon. He doesn’t care – this night is for pack, not humans,

He’s so busy watching the trees flashing past and twitching his nose to take in the different scent trails that he forgets how to coordinate his legs for a moment, tumbling end over end into a heap as the rest of the pack run on.

Not the whole pack, though – Jamie’s nudging him back to his feet, huffing _cub_ with an amused glint in his eye. Elliot snaps at his jaw fondly, and they launch back into a lolloping gait together. The pack isn’t far ahead, and they won’t be left behind.

They come to a halt in the next clearing, stars outdone by the bright light of the moon. It’s beautiful. Owen lifts his head, ears pressed back, in a joyful howl, the others matching him. Full of enthusiasm, Elliot tilts his face back and opens his mouth.

All he manages is a creaking yowl, and he lowers his head in shame as the others break off from their howls into chuffing laughs. He tries again, feeling the caring attention of his pack around him. It still doesn’t work, and Brad winds his way through the tightly packed bodies to nudge at him.

He raises his head to the sky and howls, full and throaty. Elliot studies him, seeing how he’s not angling his head too far back and forcing the sound out. It’s instinct, he remembers, and he gives it another go.

This time he manages it, adding his voice to the Saracens pack. It’s been a long year, hard in all the ways he hadn’t been expecting, but for the first time he feels that he truly belongs.

  
  



End file.
